Straits of Hell (19 page)

//////
USS
Donaghey
Alex-aandra Harbor
September 6, 1944

“I
still can't hardly believe they bought it,” proclaimed Wendel “Smitty” Smith, staring at the mouth of the harbor over his shoulder; a harbor that had been finally, sullenly abandoned the evening before by the League's dreadnaught,
Savoie
. “Figured we were goners. Warm meat, just waitin' for the splash.” He looked apologetically at Greg. “Sorry, Skipper, but those were awful big guns, and I guess they were pointed at us long enough to kinda give me the heebie-jeebies.”

“You don't have to tell
me
, Smitty,” Greg said. Implied was a reminder that as
Walker
's old gunnery officer, Greg knew perfectly well what
Savoie'
s big rifles would've done to
Donaghey
.

Smitty brightened slightly. “Oh well, I suppose when push comes to
shove, frogs're frogs wherever they are, an' they'll always run when it comes to a fight.”

“That's bull and you know it,” Greg muttered. “There was nothing wrong with French fighting men even where we came from; just stupid leaders—a lot like we had.” He shook his head. “They didn't run away because they were scared,” he considered. “And these aren't the same Frenchies we used to know either.”

Donaghey
was in the process of shifting over to the dock so recently occupied by the intruder. Greg had been mightily concerned that
Savoie
might send at least a few parting salvos from her big guns, possibly even targeting his ship. The League had sunk
Respite Island
after all. But Greg had never brought that up with Morrisette, content to let him think the Allies didn't know. Even if he'd raised a stink, Morrisette and his “League” would've probably disavowed the attack as the act of an isolated element, impossible to control, Greg reflected. Actually firing on Alex-aandra, or Greg's ship while anchored there, would've been impossible to disavow, and apparently they didn't want a “real” war after all. At least not yet.

“Me neither,” Lieutenant Saama-Kera agreed. “I mean, I didn't think it would work. I got no opinion about ‘frogs' other than them ‘Frog-Grik' critters at Chill-Chaap—and I know
they'll
fight.” He shuddered at a memory he shared only with Bekiaa, of all those present. “Why you call the League folks ‘frogs'?”

“Just skip it,” Greg said.

“'Kay,” Saama-Kera replied, still confused, “but it
did
work, an' maybe we should'a pulled this stunt a long time ago.”

“How, Sammy?” Greg asked. “No way to coordinate anything with Nig-Taak until the other night.” He looked at Choon, who'd spent the night ashore in his own home for the first time in months, but had returned bright and early that morning. “That was good work, Inquisitor,” he said with genuine respect.

Choon bowed. “I did nothing.”

“But your organization did, and it was first rate. Maybe you ought to give pointers to Herring and our snoops.”

“We have had much longer to establish our service, and intrigue comes naturally to us. It was like mother's milk to several of the cultures that settled here over time.”

Sammy nodded curiously.

“In any event,
Savoie
is gone,” Choon stated. “And we will immediately attempt to establish communications with your—our allies at Maada-gaascar.” Greg had tried himself, free at last of
Savoie
's threats, but apparently the ring of mountains around the city had prevented
Donaghey
's transmissions from getting through. Now he waited expectantly, but in contrast to his encouraging announcement, Choon blinked discomfort.

“We are having some difficulty with that. As you know, our wireless equipment is situated in the mountains and can receive transmissions from vast distances, particularly when the conditions are right, but it has been a great while since we transmitted anything at all.” He blinked again. “We can still receive, have never stopped, in fact. But there appears to be a minor problem with our transmitter. Fear not,” he hurried to add. “We will soon sort it out. And the first thing we will do is inform the Grand Alliance, this ‘Union' you serve, that you are here and safe, and explain why you were unable to report when you arrived. We will also describe
Savoie
and the people aboard her in great detail, as well as the bizarre circumstances that prevented us from launching the attack they desired. Assurances will be made that we will make up for lost time and you, Cap-i-taan Gaarrett, and your ship, will be commended for the part you played in expediting
Savoie
's departure.”

Greg shifted uncomfortably. He hadn't done anything but sit there. Maybe Nig-Taak and General Kim had appreciated his pep talk, but that was all he'd done.

Choon continued, still blinking. “We cannot transmit,” he repeated, “but have received word that First Fleet South did indeed wrest the sacred isle from the Grik, though it is now somewhat awkwardly placed for the purposes of reinforcement and resupply. It also seems our enemy has begun his own counteroffensive with a damaging raid from the air. Cap-i-taan Reddy expects such raids to continue and must counter them while still preparing to defend against the seaborne threat.” He took a breath. “My kaiser has already commanded that we resume moving troops and equipment to our northern frontier with the Grik, preparations that had been delayed by
Savoie
, and will extend his personal apology to Chairman Adar and Cap-i-taan Reddy that such were not as timely as we all had hoped.”

“Great,” Greg said, frowning. “But what about us? It seems to me we should turn around and head back. Try to help, if things are that strapped.”

“No, Cap-i-taan Gaarrett,” Choon said gently. “Your ship was sent here—and beyond—for a reason: to explore westward, with a particular eye toward discovering the extent of Dominion control of the Western Atlantic, if possible. We
will
soon be ‘back on the air,' and will relay any messages you send for as long as we can receive them.” He looked at all the surrounding officers. “Speaking for myself, I also hope that you might make contact with other potential allies during your travels, most specifically a particular power that your forces far to the east have made a brief acquaintance with.”

Greg nodded, remembering the reports of the ordeal endured by Fred Reynolds and Kari Faask. “Okay,” he agreed as
Donaghey
finally touched the pier and her crew began securing her. “That makes sense.” He gestured around. “But I need supplies. Canvas, cordage . . . everything.”

“Of course. Detail your needs and all will be met.” Choon hesitated. “But my kaiser has requested that you leave one of your flying machines and it's aircrew behind so we might examine it and more quickly advance our own fledgling air service. As you may have gathered, we have the technology already and can quickly, ah, ‘gear up' to build the machines, but it would help us immensely to study your proven, operational specimen—not to mention the professional techniques of your aviators.”

“This better not be a bribe,” Greg warned.

“Of course not! Merely a request.”

Greg frowned. It was hard not to be skeptical after all the sneaking around everyone had been doing—and after dealing with the League! But his people had
Amerika
, after all, the Republic's biggest ship. He rubbed his eyes, wondering how many hours his most “professional” pilot had in Nancys. Green as they all were, not many.

“My kaiser will understand perfectly if you refuse,” Choon assured him. “We all know such generosity would leave you, who are going beyond relief, without a spare aircraft.”

Greg shrugged uncomfortably. “Sure, I guess. I'll have to ask the pilots and some of their wrenches to volunteer, but that shouldn't be a problem. They're all sick of being aboard here.”

Choon flicked his eyes at Bekiaa, then continued. “Thank you. In that vein I have one further request. Kaiser Nig-Taak desires, at my suggestion, that some of your officers remain here as well, to liaise and advise. I understand that might present an even greater hardship than the loss of your aircraft,” he said, then hastened to add, “But in exchange, we would like to send several of our officers along with you. All are fine soldiers and sailors, and some have even explored as far as some certain isles off the coast of the southern continent to the west.” Choon blinked. “They may be of great help to you, with respect to currents in particular. It has also become important to the kaiser and me that should you encounter the Doms, at least a few of our people, regardless of how symbolic their number might be, accompany you to confront this other common enemy we must share if we are to be the allies you have proven you deserve.”

Greg swallowed.
The Republic officially jumping in the war against the Doms? That could be huge
.
Granted, there's not a helluva lot they can do to help right now, but if we lick the Grik, or at least roll 'em back . . . Even
potential
help against the Doms might encourage High Chief Saan-Kakja and Governor-Empress Rebecca McDonald, who often seem to feel they're carrying too much of the load in the East—well, West from here
.

“That sounds great, Inquisitor. But who do you want? Or should I just ask for volunteers for that too?”

“I shall only ask for one person, specifically,” Choon said, gazing directly at Bekiaa now.

“What?” she exclaimed, taken aback. “Why me? I can't stay here!”

“As I have explained before, many times, the training you give your Maa-reens is most impressive. The discipline and combat skills you teach are quite different from those our legions have learned. We always expected that we would have to face the Grik one day, but believed our better weapons would keep us from having to get, ah, ‘in their faces,' be ‘stuck in,' as you say, and fight with them hand to hand. Your experience proves that belief was . . . misguided. We do not know how to fight the Grik as you do, and our legions need your example.” He blinked gentle entreaty, knowing how wounded her soul had been. “And besides, who among us has more experience fighting the Grik under so many different circumstances?”

“Cap-i-taan?” Bekiaa pleaded, but Greg just shook his head, still
stunned by both the appropriateness—and sheer gall of the request. It made perfect sense, of course, but
damn
did he not want to lose Bekiaa!

“Captain Bekiaa-Sab-At, the decision is yours,” Greg finally managed as formally as he could. “But I want you to think about it long and hard.”

Later that evening, after going ashore in Alex-aandra for the first time in daylight and making the first necessary contacts he'd need to ensure that his ship was properly refitted, Greg Garrett returned aboard. Now he had to get as cleaned up as possible so he and his officers could join the kaiser, all his advisors, the Senate—and God knew who all, for a celebration to commemorate their joint “victory” over
Savoie
. Tomorrow,
Donaghey
would be shifted to a beach where she could be careened and her refit would begin. The early stages of that would be in the hands of the Gentaa. That was what they did, part of their “concession.” Greg didn't mind. Most of his crew would then be released upon the exotic city of Alex-aandra for a long-deserved liberty, and his people and those that lived here would finally start getting to know one another properly. He grinned at that; it was his first real grin in a long time. He'd never been a prude, but he'd hadn't much approved of the . . . less genteel traditions many enlisted US Navy personnel engaged in ashore. Asiatic Fleet sailors, in particular, had taken those traditions to stunning heights—or lows, in his view. USS
Walker
had been his first overseas assignment, and to say he'd been amazed by the level of misbehavior in China and the Philippines was a vast understatement. With a lot more experience and a little more age, he'd come to recognize the . . . safety valve, the
breaker
, that such relatively innocent mischief helped to trip—as long as it remained ashore—and his stance had slowly moderated to a degree. Particularly as those ancient traditions had been handed down in the middle of a pressure-cooker war to this new “American Navy Clan.” He suddenly caught himself almost amusedly eager to see how the locals would respond.

Staring out to sea, he wondered what Bekiaa would decide—and what awaited him and
Donaghey
when his beloved ship finally set sail to continue their mission. Something interesting, no doubt. But he also worried where
Savoie
had gone. General Kim said she'd arrived from the northeast, so it was likely she originated from somewhere in the Atlantic. But when she steamed away, she'd headed due south until she
was completely out of sight. Greg had been tempted to send one of his planes after her, just to see which way she turned, but decided it would be too risky in the cold, damp skies off the coast. He was
very
worried what that monster might do if Laborde decided to take his frustrations out on First Fleet South. His country, government—whatever—had already attacked it before. Why not again, unless they intended to maintain the fiction of peace? “Where'd you go, you big fat bitch?” he whispered to himself. “Where the hell did you come from?”

It was starting to cool off as the sun set, a front arriving from the south that had most of his crew either miserable or delighted. He took a deep breath and went below to put on his finest uniform.

//////
Zanzibar

“T
he ‘League of Tripoli' is centered near where Tripoli should be!” Lieutenant Iguri reported, a bit smugly, Muriname thought, as the two toured the engine factory deep in the jungle of the island. The huge structure was very difficult to see from outside, even from the air. Kurokawa had always been paranoid that the Grik would begin spying on them with the very dirigibles they'd made for them, and discover what they'd been up to all along. In retrospect, Muriname thought, if the Americans truly were on Madagascar, his paranoia might have been a good thing after all. He looked at the glistening radials perched on wooden trucks and listened to the rumble of machinery. He was confident they wouldn't be overheard, and paused to look at Iguri. His executive officer had been hanging around the airfield where the Ju-52 was parked, spending time with Oberleutnant Fiedler. The young German pilot seemed friendly enough
with his Italian copilot, but he always stayed with the plane as though afraid to leave it. He even slept inside. He'd seemed hungry for someone to talk to, however, when Iguri started dropping by.

“That much has already been revealed in discussions with the others,” Muriname reminded impatiently. “What else have you learned—and does Fiedler know you are interrogating him?”

Iguri frowned. “Honestly, I think yes, but he doesn't seem to care. I don't believe he is very happy with the alliance his people are involved in, and particularly with their place as a, um, junior partner. He was sent here as an ‘equal member' of the delegation in fact, but was then practically ordered to stay out of the discussions by the Frenchman.”

“So it is true, then, that a fascist alliance, this ‘Confédération des États Souverains' that wound up in North Africa, had France, Italy, and Spain as the dominant partners, and Germany and a few other countries were merely associated allies?”

“As was Japan, it would seem, sir,” Iguri confirmed, “but we—
they
—were not involved in the campaign that brought them here. The Germans on the other hand had supplied aircraft, armor, and transports, and are now supposedly equal members of the League.”

“A different world indeed,” Muriname reflected, contemplating all he'd learned. Never had he even considered such a thing was possible, but it made perfect sense, he supposed. They were obviously on a different earth than the one they left, so why couldn't there be more than two? He'd tried to explain the situation, as he imperfectly saw it, to Kurokawa, but the General of the Sea
wouldn't
grasp it and had finally actually ranted that it made no difference at all. Perhaps he was right. He looked at Iguri. He already knew everything his exec had picked up from Fiedler, but the semi-independent confirmation was . . . interesting.

Apparently, the First World War had essentially restarted—over empires again—but the participants had shifted about a bit. Bolshevism had been stamped out, but fascism had run rampant in Europe to the extent that it gobbled up France (as a reaction to Bolshevism), and fascist Germany, still apparently “Nazi” Germany, had been too racked by internal conflict and even civil war to rise to the summit of power Muriname remembered. In fact, part of the original purpose of the “Confédération” had been to assist the struggling fascists in Germany!
Combined with Japan and half the rest of the world with a lust for expansion, the Confédération des États Souverains had hurled itself at the creaking empires of the British, Americans, Russians, and Chinese. That was the “different” history Muriname now contemplated. The pertinent part that he, and even Kurokawa, had to consider was that the Confédération and its allies had embarked on an invasion of British Egypt from Italian Libya in 1939! Muriname didn't know if the actual invasion had commenced before a substantial fraction of the ships, troops, and supplies had “gone missing” from their own Mediterranean Sea and wound up on this twisted world. That their history prior to that was so diverse just went to show how truly twisted it was after all. None of the emissaries would reveal the extent of the convoy that arrived at the different Tripoli of this world, but Muriname didn't think they were merely boasting when they said it was a “considerable” force.

“Keep talking to Oberleutnant Fiedler,” Muriname ordered. “Try to discover as much from him as you can, including what are his true feelings about his associates, and his own people's participation in this ‘League of Tripoli.' Most particularly, try to find out what he thinks about the League's strength and capabilities.”

“Of course, General of the Sky!”

Muriname watched with a frown as Iguri exited the engine factory. Iguri was a capable officer and a good pilot. Muriname had trained him himself, in
Amagi
's old Type 95 floatplane, which had been restored to a perfectly airworthy condition in spite of what they'd once told General Esshk. He was hardworking and honest, two traits Muriname prized, but just a bit . . . overzealous, and perhaps too worshipful of Kurokawa for comfort. For example, Muriname had actually gotten somewhat protective of his Grik airship crews over time, and made it a point to learn more about the creatures they relied so much upon. He had to guard against showing it, but it had disturbed him to see the airships and their pilots wasted so badly in combat. Iguri maintained a semblance of Kurokawa's disdain, even hatred toward the Grik, and had acquired a streak of arrogance and ambition from the example Kurokawa set that was out of proportion to his rank, skill, and experience. In spite of that, Muriname liked Iguri and hoped he wouldn't push the German pilot too far in their conversations, or himself too far in the air.

After going through the motions of inspecting the assembly line as
he did nearly every day, Muriname left the factory and strolled the quarter mile down the white sand pathway through the overhanging trees to the signal tower on the edge of airfield number one. Taking the steps two at a time, he climbed to the high, camouflaged platform where he joined a Japanese officer and several Grik, waving signal flags at a pair of planes taxiing toward the downwind end of the strip. Even more than teaching Grik to fly real airplanes, Muriname was proud that he'd finally broken through whatever mental block the Grik had against grasping the concept of things as fundamental as signal flags. That they'd already used them to some extent, to coordinate attacks at sea, for example, should've made it easy for them to translate moving flags into more complex meanings—easier than teaching them to understand spoken Japanese, certainly—but that hadn't been the case. Then, one day, one of them grasped it—then another. Soon they all did, and Muriname was forced to conclude that the mental acuity of the Grik was even more linked to maturation than he'd ever imagined. He couldn't help being fascinated.

“General of the Sky!” the Japanese controller cried, saluting crisply. The Grik did as well, with their flags in their hands, and Muriname momentarily panicked that they'd inadvertently sent the two planes careening into the jungle. He sighed with relief when he realized the pilots were past, already nearing their takeoff positions, and wouldn't look at the signal flags again except as signals to take off—to “attack.”

“As you were, ah . . .” He glanced at the painted rank patch on the sleeve of the man's dark khaki tunic. Enlisted and junior officers' fatigue uniforms were sensibly patterned after the Special Naval Landing Force. “Carry on, Ensign. I'm merely here to observe.”

The ensign bowed and ordered his Grik to signal the planes. Engines roared, and the two craft began to move. They seemed ungainly at first, almost waddling through the thick, prickly grass, before they began to accelerate. Almost immediately, their tails came up and they gathered speed. He knew they weren't carrying any ordnance, or even very much fuel—aviation gasoline was still in extremely short supply—but Muriname was gratified to see how quickly the planes, his own creations to a large extent, took to the air. They thundered down the runway, already rising as they passed the signal tower at the halfway mark. Still in a gratifyingly tight formation, they pulled up and away, banking
northward toward the harbor. Soon, though he still heard them, they were lost to view.

“Good planes,” came an accented voice from the steps below. It was Oberleutnant Fiedler, venturing farther from his own plane than Muriname had ever seen him. “May I come up?” he asked.

“Please do.” Muriname waited a moment while Fiedler joined him. “You approve of our new aircraft?” he asked conversationally.

“
Ja
. Amazing that you could make such things in the . . . conditions here. I have been watching them for a while now as your pilots practice, and I would say they are at least as good as the Arado Sixty-six I first trained in.”

Muriname smiled. “Perhaps not as maneuverable, but faster, I believe. I was honored to fly the Arado Sixty-six on a visit to Hamburg in 'thirty-eight.”

“Not a good time to be there,” Fiedler said grimly. Muriname began to ask why. He remembered his visit with pleasure. “I was learning to fly the Yokosuka K Four Y, Type Ninety seaplane at the time,” he said instead.

“I do not know it.” Fiedler seemed distracted, as if watching for the planes to return, and Muriname paused. “Well,” he said at last, “you at least are still able to fly. I am not able to as often as I would like.” He gestured at the row of planes across the airstrip. “And these are very much like fighter aircraft. Smaller and slower than what we left behind, of course, but better than what our enemies have. And still quite exhilarating. Perhaps you'd like to try one?”

Fiedler looked tempted, but shook his head, curling his lip. “Gravois would object.”

Muriname smiled again. “Surely not. If he is concerned about the safety of his pilot, he still has Lieutenant de Luca to fly him home. Use the excuse of ‘learning more about our capabilities.'”

Fiedler looked at him strangely and started to say something before stopping himself. “De Luca is a pilot,” he agreed, “but not the best. He is primarily our navigator and radio operator. You may have noted it is he who goes to our plane to send and receive reports.” He smiled at Muriname. “And no, it would do you no good to ‘detain' him. Only Kapitan Gravois has our codes.”

Muriname chuckled, confirming that had indeed been his first
impulsive thought. For some reason he found himself rather liking this German pilot. Fiedler took out a case and removed a hand-rolled cigarette. Muriname never smoked but wondered where the German got tobacco. Was it from this world or the last? Fiedler lit up.

“Besides, I doubt Gravois would be much interested in what I might learn,” the German finally added, very carefully. “At least about what he would consider your ‘primitive' aircraft.”

Muriname bristled inwardly, but recognized that Fiedler had just told him a great deal. Clearly, the League of Tripoli possessed other modern planes in addition to the Ju-52. That should've been intuitively obvious, he supposed. They were cavalier about the loss of a submarine, and that they'd been willing to risk such a valuable aircraft on the dangerous flight here in the first place said a great deal about their material reserves. Muriname nodded slightly, acknowledging the gift of information. “Then fly one of these for the pleasure of it. One pilot to another, you spend a great deal of your time all alone. And to be honest, your friends appear to have more regard for your services than your insights. That would seem to me a perfectly good reason to enjoy yourself when you can.” He gestured once more at the planes. “Fly one. Perhaps someday, if I visit your League, you might return the favor.”

Fiedler studied Muriname while he took a long drag on his cigarette, then finally nodded. “I might arrange that one day, if our leaders are satisfied with the outcome of this mission.” He nodded again decisively. “I will fly, with pleasure,” he said. “And in return, I shall reveal one of my ‘insights' to you. One pilot to another. As you have been told, we—the League, I mean—know a great deal about you and your enemies. How that came to be is a long story in itself, but it is true. In fact, as Gravois might already have said, information is the greatest aid we are prepared to give you at present. Beyond that, it is up to you to decide whether you are more or less likely to prosper by seeking any further assistance from the League of Tripoli. Like your mad Kurokawa, Gravois and his superiors have their own plans,
always
, that are rarely respectful of those they consider to be in their power.”